


Just to Know You're Alive

by lizdarcy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, explicit depictions of self-harm, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizdarcy/pseuds/lizdarcy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Stiles cuts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just to Know You're Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Warning- this story is about intentional self-harm, and if that's a trigger for you, please don't read. This story is not intended to condone or encourage self-harm in anyway. If any of my reader have things they need a non-biased or non-judgmental ear for, please feel free to send me a message, I'd be happy to listen.
> 
> I've never personally self-harmed, this is just my take on it. If anyone has suggestions or criticisms, comments would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Title from the song "Iris" by the Goo Goo Dolls
> 
> EDIT: I'm still available as an ear for people struggling with self-harm. You can find me at spinnerwrites on tumblr if you need a safe space <3

_Yeah she gives a smile when the pain comes_

_The pain gonna make everything alright_

~~~

Sometimes Stiles cuts.

It's not a suicidal thing. Really. He isn't like depressed or whatever. It isn't a cry for help or a desperate play for attention. It's not anything like that. He doesn't real think about it, to be honest.

He isn't stupid about it; he's never gone for the whole "hey, I got five new bracelets yesterday, woo!" route. They riddle his thighs or hipbones or upper arms. One time he tried the sole of his foot, but decided that was a bit too masochistic for his tastes.

He can say it helps him focus. With the ADHD, the werewolves and the ridiculous amount of homework Harris gives them each week, it's believable. And maybe it's true, but that isn't quite it. Not really.

When they were in middle school, Scott had asked about it once. More like flipped a shit, really. He had almost told his mom, even. Stiles didnt explain, just said he was curious and wouldn't do it again. He was pretty sure Scott got it, though. Werewolf noses are sort of a bitch for scenting out blood. Whether he gets it, or is just too caught up in life, or doesn't notice, Scott doesn't mention it beyond that first time years ago.

It's not like he does it every day, either. The urge will hit him once a month or so; sometimes a few months will slide by before he does it again. It doesn't build up in him. Not like a pressure release or anything. He just sits on his bed with his pocket knife and scratches until the skin breaks. Sometimes he doesn't even realize he's doing it until that bright, slick pain shoots through him. He'll stop then, bandage himself up, and finish reading up on gremlins, or finishing his report on trickle-down economics (stupid, in his opinion). It's not a _big thing_.

Jackson once asked him if he was on his period, because he smelled like blood. Stiles had just shrugged and said he cut himself. It wasn't a lie. He did cut himself. He isn't trying to hide anything. It isn't his fault if no one looks into it. 

He likes the way they would heal over, and disappear. Almost like he's a werewolf too. Supernatural or not, healing has always fascinated him. He likes how he can rub salt on them and keep them forever, if he wants to (again, more towards the masochistic end of the spectrum, but curiosity hadn't exactly been a lie either). He likes tracing his finger over the scars and feeling a shadow of the hot burst of pain. He likes watching the red drip over his skin, a reminder of exactly just how much stands between him and death. He likes the way it takes his mind off things he can't control. People he can't control. He'd always be able to control this. No one can take this from him. 

He knows it probably isn't psychologically healthy, but hello? Four psychotic murderous rampages in, like, a year? He's pretty sure his mental health is sufficient enough in comparison. If it helps keep him sane, who are they to judge?

He sits at his desk, pencil bouncing on his notebook compulsively, tongue stuck between his teeth as he stares at his trig book. Math should be easy, and it isn't necessarily difficult, per say, but it's too easy for his chaotic brain to veer away from the linear problems for him to focus. X= 4(sin) of 2b over... triangles are stupid shapes if you thing about it. Why does everything revolve around them? Three sides, uneven, indivisable, the number of occurrences of bad things, the number of wheels it takes to make a situation awkward, inadvisable as a substitute for a circle seeing as they don't roll very well, although they do make for good inclined planes and wedges... Oh. Simple machines, obviously.

And when he looks down, his Swiss Army knife is flicked open and drawing neat little triangles into his thigh. It's the damnedest thing the way it happens like that. He doesn't even realize he wants to until he feel the warm drip of it on his skin. It just...helps.

~~~

No one asks about it, either. He knows the pack can smell it on him, but maybe they just assume it's another instance involving his legendary inability to exude gracefulness. No one bothers him about it, so he doesn't bother correcting them. 

Sometimes, Derek gives him a look. Not his standard I-hate-the-world-and-everyone-who-breathes-its-air look, just a look. And Stiles knows he knows. Sometimes, he burns to ask, just wanting to really _know_ for sure, but he never does. 

Then Derek presses him up against his door one night and growls about "stupid humans" and "unnecessary risks," but Stiles really doesn't give a shit because holy tongue in his mouth. Derek comes over every night after that. Or Stiles goes to Derek's. Or they make out in his Jeep. Or Derek's Camaro. Or in the woods. Or in the shower. Stiles really isn't picky.

Then all of a sudden, they matter. His scars and non-scars and future scars lining up over his skin like he has something to be ashamed of. It never occurred to him to be ashamed of it before now, and suddenly it feels... Silly. Clichéd. It isn't, he knows it isn't, but the rest of the world sees it differently. He knows how people think of it. The "cutters." The Emo kids, the depressed and lonely degenerates. That isn't it at all, though. And suddenly he can't look Derek in the eye, or let Derek's hand unbutton his jeans or sweep his t-shirt over his head. He can't let Derek step behind him in the shower anymore and run his hands over his body.

Derek always stops and slows down or just leaves altogether and Stiles doesn't want that, he wants the exact opposite of that, but he can't make the words come. Not when he needs them most.

A week goes by without Derek coming over and it hurts in his chest like something has been take from him. He can't explain, he can't give up this last piece of himself. Not when it'll be torn up and ridiculed and misunderstood. 

He finds himself drawing spirals and jagged lines across his skin with his knife, but can't bring himself to be surprised when a hand rests over his own, and gently lifts the knife away. He feels cold, and steels himself with his usual sarcastic mask, determined to not let Derek's words get to him. They sit there in silence for what feels like hours, Stiles refusing to meet Derek's gaze. But then he hears the sharp exhale of breath, and looks up to see one of Derek's claws digging into the werewolf's forearm. Stiles' eyes flash up, wide and disbelieving, watching as Derek draws swiftly-disappearing patterns in his skin.

"I started after the fire," Derek begins quietly. "It kept me grounded, kept me human. I could _feel_ this. It just healed up anyways. Why not? It made me remember I was alive, and I had to keep living. I couldn't stay numb forever."

Stiles reaches over, and runs his fingers over the fading triskeles, before looking up at Derek speechless. No one has ever offered him such simple acceptance before.

"I stopped after Laura, because it was too tempting to let my claws dig deeper, to tear myself apart. Then Scott happened, and... And you, and I had to pull it together. Learn to blame others instead of myself. Use anger instead of pain."

Stiles is distantly aware that his eyes are welling up, and his masculinity will most definitely be affronted later, but right now he can't do anything but grip the knife tighter with both hands, squeezing Derek's below his.

Then Derek sets the knife aside and leads them both to the bed, gently pressing Stiles back into the mattress. Clothes disappear quietly, skin is bared and scars uncovered. Derek's are smooth and invisible to the eye, but Stiles kisses them anyways: Derek's lips find every single mark and line and doodle he's ever sketched into his body and kisses away the shadows they left behind. Backs arch and moans tear free, singing softly through the darkness.

"I don't have to be numb with you, Stiles. You make me feel," Derek whispers, reverently. A whimper leaves his lips, and he nods, only semi-conscious of the movement. Derek makes him feel, too. Derek makes the numbness slip away. 

"Derek," he gasps out, and they rock together, bodies pulsing with nerve-ends tingling and sensors reacting and endorphins flying. 

They fall asleep entangled. Derek's hand rests against the angry red scabs.

Stiles puts the knife away in the back of his drawer the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from the song "She Talks to Angels" by Black Crowes


End file.
